


Rosemary

by TintinnabulousRunes



Series: Tokens and Praises [4]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Gen, POV Alternating, POV First Person, The Rebellion Failed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2019-11-07 19:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17966894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TintinnabulousRunes/pseuds/TintinnabulousRunes
Summary: Rosemary is for remembrance.Too bad it's so hard to remember.The sequel to Brother's Ashes: The 90th Hunger Games





	1. Chapter 1

**Summer 90**  
**August 10th**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

Going to be late. I overslept. I'm going to be late for school.

Tugging on a pair of pants, the material is silky beneath my fingers. These aren't my pants.

That's wrong, I do remember these pants. They're just new pants. Because I'm a Victor now and have the wardrobe to match.

That also means I'm not late for school.

I plop down on the bed, half dressed and disorientated. This is the third time this has happened. I just keep forgetting... all of it.

Sometimes, I even forget that Jet is dead. I expect to find him on the mattress next to mind, Mark curled up between us.

Then it all comes rushing back. Jet is dead. And I was Reaped. I killed people and survived the arena and as reward, I've been given more than I could have ever imagined.

I just want to forget it. All of it. But I can't. I want to go back to sleep. All I can do is doze. Dozing is better than sleep anyways. I don't dream when I doze.

There is a rapping on my bedroom door.

"Ike, get up and have breakfast." It's Daisy's voice on the other side of the door.

Confused, and still not wanting to get out of bed, I don't reply.

More knocking. "Ike, Spring has told me to get you out of bed by any means necessary. I will come in there and kick your ass if I have to."

I am the Victor of the 90th Hunger Games. I killed three people to get that title. And I totally believe that Daisy could kick my ass.

"Okay, okay!" I call out, surrendering and sitting up. "Just let me get dressed."

I go find a shirt in my closet. Like the pants, the material is smooth and soft. I had never considered how nice clothes could feel. My idea of soft fabric used to be what had been worn so many times the fabric got thin and even the heavy soap could not stick enough to thicken it.

I am still torn between loving having clothes of my own and missing wearing Jet's hand-me-downs. Those clothes are in the back of the closet. I'll never get rid of them, no matter how many nice clothes I own.

I still stick with wearing my new shirt.

Before Daisy feels the need to barge in to kick my ass, I open the door myself. Daisy gives me a satisfied nod.

She turns and I dutifully follow her downstairs. In the kitchen, there is breakfast already waiting in the form of toast and jam. I realize just how hungry I am and gratefully wolf down the food.

"So, what do you want to do today?" Daisy asks, then adds, "Staying here isn't an option."

Damn it.

I try to think of anything to actually do. The Hob is always an option. I'm not used to having money, let alone money that's mine. I've been buying a lot of things. Wait... I haven't gotten chickens yet. I can go get chickens!

"Chickens," I announce, not caring about the confused look that Daisy gives me.

* * *

**Daisy Henderson**  
**District 12**  
**Cheese Maker**

Why chickens?

What someone buys when they suddenly become insanely rich has to say something about them. I have learned that Ike, when suddenly insanely rich, buys his family, me, and the Mays all new clothes. He then stock piles his house with non-perishables and plants a huge vegetable garden.

And now, he is buying four chickens.

He is also really bad at haggling. Some official-secretary-person told him he is not allowed to give away any money from his Victor stipend. The bad haggling could be an attempt at distributing his funds in a slightly more legitimate way. As legitimate as anything can get in the Hob, that is.

But, knowing Ike, he's just bad at haggling. He's too nice for his own good. Always got him into trouble before.

It is hard to still think of him as such a sweet kid when I watched him kill three people in the Games.

His whole family is trying to act like things are normal. Spring is teaching now, and Mark is in school, and their parents are still working in the mines. I know Ike's tried to talk them out of it. The garden is already difficult for him to manage on his own and I know Floyd will cave soon enough. And once he caves, Leslie will, too.

Two chickens in baskets are unceremoniously deposited in my arms. Ike carries the other two. We head back out into the late summer heat. I let Ike lead the way. He sticks to side streets until we reach the outskirts of town and there is a clear shot to the Victors' Village.

Ike actively tries to avoid people. He skirts around in the shadows, even now that he is happily carrying the two chickens.

People won't leave him alone, so I don't blame him. There are so many strangers who come and try to shake his hand and thank him. I have little doubt Parcel Days, courtesy of his victory, has saved lives. I can see it in the faces of many in the Seam, the less hollow cheeks and the energy to stand up straighter.

The Village is quiet and gated and no one bothers us here. Haymitch keeps largely to himself. I see him around, mainly in the Hob buying liquor. Most of the time he's piss drunk. The rare sober occasion, he does check up on how Ike is doing.

I do try to be honest when he asks me, and give the same reply every time, "Pretty shit."

Ike is doing pretty shit. He locks himself up in his room. And he forgets. I've seen it in the confusion on his face. He honestly forgets the past few years. That can't be remotely healthy.

We get to the backyard, with the low fence that nominally separate it from the rest of the plots of land in the Village. I unleash the chickens.

Watching Ike dote on his newly acquired chickens is honestly adorable. The chickens seem to love him just as much as he loves them. The two speckled ones I had been carrying sit in his lap, the fluffy white one perches on his shoulder, and he cradles the red one in his arms.

I make a stack of old milk creates to serve as a decent enough coop. Building an actual coop should be a good distraction for Ike. Unless there's something for him to focus on, he gets distant. I'm sure there's some kind of brain doctor reasoning behind that.

For now, Ike has chickens and that will be enough.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summer 90**  
**August 20th**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

Mortimer keeps sending me packets on different talents. I have passed up violin, flute, and guitar. The whole "reading" music thing doesn't make sense and I've never wanted to learn any instrument anyways. I told Mortimer to stop sending music ones.

I thought about cooking, but I'm just not that good, and won't be in time for the tour. That also eliminates baking, since I'm even worse at that.

Mortimer hasn't even bothered sending anything about painting or fashion. Any potential comparisons between myself and the 74th Victors is a thing to be avoided.

The new packet has stuff about plants. There is even a picture of a rose bush on the front. Might not be that bad then.

Flicking through the first few pages, I figure out it isn't about gardening like I thought it could be. It's about flower arranging.

The colors are nice. The packet even shows how to properly dry different kinds of flowers, so the arrangement can be first displayed as fresh, then as dried. In the description in the back, there is a blurb about how, in ancient times, different plants had different meanings.

Red roses represented romantic love, while yellow roses were for platonic love. Bay laurel represented glory and honor and wreaths of it were given to athletes who won competitions. Rosemary, a common kitchen herb, was for remembrance. Snapdragons could represent either graciousness or deception, depending on the other flowers they were with.

I can call Mortimer later about getting supplies. For now, I can try things out with the wildflowers that grow around the Village.

Since I'm heading out, and will be out for a little while, I need to bring water with me. It's a habit I've developed, and I hate that I have but I do it anyways If I'm outside for any amount of time and it's not just walking into town, I have to have water with me. Because being outside and being thirsty and not having water with me means someone going down to the lake.

It doesn't matter that there is no lake anymore. Or that there is no one left but me to go to the lake.

Only when there is a small canteen hanging off my belt can I go outside to pick wildflowers. I make sure to take a basket with me, too, to carry what I can find.

Pumpkin, my little red hen, follows me toward the edge of the Victors Village. There is a fence of wooden posts that rings the Village and serves as a prettier boundary marker than the electric fence, which is obscured by a row of shrubs that sits between it and the wooden fence.

No one really comes out here much and there are plenty of wildflowers. There are daisies and buttercups and dandelions. Violets grow around the bases of the posts. Little star-shaped white flowers which I cannot readily identify grow in clusters from long green stalks.

I have a pen knife on me. Because it's handy to have. But, it's a bit of a comfort thing the same way the canteen is. But I try to focus on the fact that it's handy more than anything else.

My first priority is gathering the dandelions. The cooked greens are edible and really not that bad once you get used to them. We don't need them. I pause in my cutting.

I can try to give them to the Mays. No one in the Seam likes charity. More often than not, I resort to dropping things off at their door or just shoving it into Erwin's arms and not letting him hand them back. I'll drop the dandelions greens off later.

I get back to cutting, going from the greens to the flowers.

The basket quickly fills with yellows and whites and purples. Continuing to search I find clusters of red and pink flowers as well.

When the basket is full enough for flowers to start falling out and Pumpkin starts pecking at my ankles, I know it is time to go back home.

The study winds up being the best place to do this, because it has the only tables that is relatively clear. I dump the basket out, only regathering the dandelion greens to deliver later.

Somehow, I wind up sorting the flowers into edible and poisonous. If I don't know what it is, it's gone into poisonous. My chest gets tight. It's just a bunch of flowers. But at the same time, it's training before the arena all over again.

I am never going to escape. I will always be in the arena or heading into the arena or watching Jet in the arena. This is the rest of my life. There is no forgetting it. And I hate those times when I do because it's fresh and raw when I do remember it all again.

I force myself to pick up my neat piles and mix them together.

I head downstairs to retrieve the information packet. I clutch it to my chest going back up the stairs.

It's okay. I can do this. I'll be alright.

* * *

**Fall 90**  
**September 26th**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

Only having one neighbor should make it rather easy to get along with said neighbor. In some respects, though, I do not only have one neighbor. I have five.

One of my neighbors is Haymitch.

The other four are his geese.

The geese suit Haymitch. They share the similar quality of being unrepentant assholes.

For example, the geese currently have me trapped in the back corner of the garden. I saw them scratching at the seedlings I planted and tried to chase them off. Instead, they've cornered me. They hit me with their wings and peck at me when I try to get away.

Their honking and my angry shouts attracted Haymitch's attention. So, he's drunkenly laughing at me. Actually, I'm not even sure if Haymitch is drunk right now. He could be completely sober and laughing at me.

Half of the problem, more like all of it, is that I don't want to hurt any of the geese. They are foul creatures. But I don't want to hurt them. I just don't want to hurt anything. Not ever again.

I swallow what tiny bit of pride I actually have, and call out, "Haymitch, call them off. Please?"

He's still laughing, but he comes over, waving the geese away. They honk at him, and one bites his arm, but they half-waddle-half-fly back over to Haymitch's house.

I retreat to the back porch, angry and embarrassed.

"How are you holding up, kid?" Haymitch asks, sitting down on the back porch with me.

Pumpkin comes over and hops onto my leg. I hug her. "Okay, I guess."

Haymitch is quiet. He seems to be mulling something over and does not smell like a liquor cabinet at the moment. I doubt he's really sober but less drunk than average.

"If you're feeling up to it, I thought I'd give you the run down on what goes on with mentoring. Most other Victors get a year off before they start, but it's just the two of us, so you don't."

"Maybe later," I dismiss.

I certainly don't feel like thinking about any of that, let along talking about it. I doubt I really ever will. I get up and retreat inside, taking Pumpkin with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one of the only things I really like about Mockingjay, is that Haymitch got geese. I decided he got geese in the AU, too.
> 
> I don't like geese. When I was a little kid, I got attacked by a flock of the evil things. I was just trying to feed the ducks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Fall 90**  
**December 7th**

**Mia Cardew**  
**Capitol Citizen**  
**Stylist for District 12**

There is going to be so much last-minute hemming to do. Between the measurements I got for Ike from his final interview and the ones I got last week, he's grown three inches and gained nearly forty pounds. He is fifteen and just started regularly getting adequate nutrition, so a growth spurt has hit him full force.

Good for him, just unfortunate for pants and shirts and anything tailored whatsoever. With my luck, he's probably grown another half an inch.

Shoe size has been consistent at the very least. Twenty-six boxes for all the footwear are all lined up and ready to go. That eliminates one thing to be worrying about.

Six of the pants do not have to be worried about because they will be tucked into boots and so I don't care about them being hemmed. The other twenty will have to be hemmed.

Twenty-six shirts. I've kept the design to the rather simple button up. There is some variation in sleeve length and embroidery details. I considered tunic style for a few but would rather the simplicity that comes with uniformity.

Simple is better for Ike. I want to evoke a sense of humility. Humility is the best thing I can give Ike. He is humble by nature and being humble will let him hide. Everyone in the Capitol tires quickly of the humble ones.

Any wannabe revolutionaries will quickly tire of him as well. I am no Cinna. Nor am I my sister. Ike Meadows will not be a child martyr as Katniss Everdeen was.

I did get more elaborate with the coats and vests. I need to indulge myself sometimes. Besides, if I'm too boring, I won't be keeping this job. Goodness know I need it.

While I've kept the pants and shirts in all neutral colors, mainly greys, I went with richer colors for the outerwear. The blackberry great coat will be an excellent opener.

Wait, cufflinks. Where are the cufflinks?

Train is about to leave. Where did I put them? Where did they go?

Next to the brooch. Right where I left them. Crisis averted. 

Everyone is ready and the train leaves right on time.

Everything is right with the world. No need to panic.

Except everything is not right. It's all so horribly wrong. Because we're about to go parade around a fifteen-year-old boy who was forced to murder three other children. And here I am, dressing him up.

Why did we have to fail?

* * *

**Fall 90**   
**December 8th**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

Not beauty base zero. I hate beauty base zero. I miss my arm hair already.

I try to stall in the shower but that only delays the inevitable. There are many wax strips involved. And it's all completely ridiculous because I'm going to be wearing a coat with it snowing outside.

Why do they feel the need to remove my arm hair when long sleeves will cover up my arms and no one will see it?

Hair removal is followed by lotions and powders.

The prep team talks the whole time. I can't even follow the conversation; their accents are so thick, and they talk so fast. I pick up something about lime green and that's about it.

Mia arrives, bringing in my outfit and waving away the prep team.

I'm dressed in dark grey pants. My leg is still a little stiff but there is no scar, which Mia comments on. I don't have any scars anymore. Not even the dumb ones I'd gotten as a kid, tripping over things. The worst was that time I stepped on a nail.

Mis passes me a dark grey button up. It's a lighter grey than the pants and made from a silky fabric that is probably actually silk.

A dark blue vest goes over the shirt. There is so much stitching on the vest that looks like flowers, the fabric has gone stiff and I can't really bend all that much. 

If I'm trying to be optimistic, the vest does help my posture.

I'm shuffled out into the living room quicker than I was expecting. There are people with cameras and others with headsets. By the kitchen, mom is offering everyone tea. Most of the older people refuse, but some of the younger Capitol citizens eagerly accept.

Mom's tea is the best. Especially now with fresh mint from the garden.

Mortimer grabs me, and I notice he has some tea. He shoves a stack of cards into my hands, instructing, "These ones are just guidelines, what you mentioned previously was just fine. Don't worry about rambling too much, that gets edited. Have fun."

Getting to nerd out about plants is actually really fun. And it's really nice, because I've been wanting to talk about plants but everyone else is bored by them.

Because I've been combining the dried flower arrangements with terrariums. It's actually a really cool look. Because you get the contrast between the dried flowers, which are dead and static, with the growing and changing living arrangement.

I mean, I think it's neat. And it's my talent, so... I get to be a nerd if I want to.

When I finish talking about my plants, Mis gets hold of me again and I'm put in a ridiculous monstrosity of a coat. It's dark purple with bright purple lining. I'm also to put on a pair of also ridiculous purple snow shoes. It's snowing, but this is overkill.

Oh, and Mia has a scarf. I do not like scarfs. And I'm in a scarf.

People with clipboards and headsets, accompanied by the cameramen, maneuver me outside. I'm glad I said my goodbyes this morning because I don't even get a chance to wave to my family.

Snow crunches beneath my boots.

My breath hitches. It's stupid, because I know I'm just heading to the car that's waiting near the gates. There's no cabin. Not anymore.

Being in cars is still weird. It seems a little silly, too, because the train station isn't that far away.

Haymitch joins me. He's tipsy, but only about a three out of ten. Mortimer piles into the car as well, trying to balance a thermos of tea and three clipboards.

The car begins to move, snow crunching under the tires.


	4. Chapter 4

**District 10**   
**Gabriella Roan, 22nd**   
**Day 1, Bloodbath**

**Ike Meadows**   
**District 12**   
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

The sky is even bigger here than it was in District 11. The air is pleasantly cool. There are patches of frost in areas of shadow but there is not a hint of snow anywhere which makes it incredibly unlike home.

Mia has gone for pants and a shirt again, both a pale tan. A bright red vest completes the look, heavily stitched and beaded with designs of red and gold wildflowers.

I sit patiently in the back of a truck as we are taken on a short tour of the paddocks of sheep and goats that are located closest to the District Center.

The wind whips my hair and provides a nice breeze. It's humid out and the clothes I'm in are stifling. It may be winter, but I'm nearly hot. Mia sits next to me and tuts over my hair every time the truck slows, and the cameras aren't focused on me. The stylists have tried using gels and moose-things to contain my hair to little effect.

The mayor describes the sights and I nod and smile when appropriate. I prefer flowers to livestock. There are some interesting patches of wildflowers I don't recognize that are growing along the side of the dirt road.

I wonder if I can order wildflower seeds. Do I have to know the name of the flower? Maybe there's a picture catalogue I can look through. There's a fabric catalogue mom's taken to looking at. She's starting to take up sewing. I'll ask Mortimer later about what catalogues are available.

Several of the goats headbutt the fence, trying to attack the metal monster encroaching on their territory.

This is why I much prefer chickens. Though I've seen Pumpkin go after a lizard before and she's a little bloodthirsty terror. The calcium from the bones is good for her egg production at least.

The truck stops in front of a larger paddock where some workers are milling about. I'm shuffled around, being introduced to the shepherds and the farmhands. One of the people whose job is to hold a clipboard and shout at the cameramen tells me when to smile and to "turn just a bit more, over here, and stay still."

When being posed like a doll is over, we're all shuffled back into the truck and head back to the District Center.

There is a choir of children singing them anthem upon our arrival. They are accompanied by a few pimply teenagers on snare drums.

Luckily for me, I can't carry a tune, so I never go stuck with the choir when I was younger. It's more of a rural District thing, to have a children's choir singing. I've never understood why.

I wait on the stage as the final things get put in place and the mayor is readied for his speech.

The buildings around us look abandoned. Paint peels and wood rots. It's a lot like home.

It's cleaner here. No coal dust over everything. There's just green, instead. I've only seen greens this bright and intense on TV, from the footage of tropical Arenas. I always thought the greens were faked.

The crowd fans out in the square. There is a familiarity in the hollowness of many of their faces. What is less familiar is that people seem to intermingle more. There is definitive difference in appearance, between those with dark hair and dark complexions and those with light hair and light complexions. But the signs of hardship are equally distributed among everyone. I guess they just don't have a version of the Merchant-Seam divide.

The banners wave in the wind.

My heart breaks for the families of the tributes. I know what it is like to stand where they are standing.

Gabriella Roan's family is in a tight cluster and they barely fit in front of the banner. Both parents, all four grandparents, three older brothers, a sister around the same age, a younger sister, and a younger brother.

My mind is a bit foggy from the pill that Mortimer gave me, but I find that my hands are shaking. When my personal comment card was reviewed, it got completely rejected. All I wanted to do was apologize to Gabriella's family. I just wanted to say how even though it was not my fault she was in the arena, I was still the reason she is dead, and for that I'm sorry.

They are still setting up the stage and the cameras are not yet filming. I take the opportunity to mouth "I'm sorry" to her family.

They don't all react. But one of the older brothers scowls. Another spits in the dirt at his feet.

Oh...

That draws more attention. A woman standing before Antonio's banner, who must be his mother, spits in the dirt as well. She is followed by several people in the crowd.

There is a flurry of activity from the cameramen and the people barking orders into headsets. Mortimer grabs me, guiding me over to my seat as District 10's mayor steps up to the podium.

Things settle back down quickly enough after some posturing from the Peacekeepers. I don't really pay attention to the speech. I just don't understand why they hate me.

I got that backpack first. It was Gabriella who attacked me with a knife. I was only defending myself. I didn't even mean to kill her. I hit her and ran. I just left the Bloodbath. The only reason I was around for so long was because Delphinia attacked me. So, really, it's more her fault than mine. Plus, the reason she attacked me had to be because Lynn told her to. So, it's her fault as well.

None of it is my fault. None of it. I'm not some Career. I didn't choose this. I never wanted any of this to happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**District 9**   
**Phil Farina, 12th**   
**Day 9**

**Ike Meadows**   
**District 12**   
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

The train rumbles along the tracks. Out the windows are fields upon fields of grain. I can recognize a few of the types from pictures, like wheat and the terraced fields of rice further in the distance.

Some of the fields are covered by massive tents that keep the snow off. Other fields are left unprotected. I bet the uncovered fields are growing Tesserae grain, since sometimes the rations are smaller, and the excuse is always bad harvests from harsh winters.

Well, the winter would be hard on anything exposed. It's not technically a lie. But it's also a circumstance that could be better prevented.

The weather is controlled within the arena. I wonder if the Capitol could control the weather over the fields if they wanted to. Maybe it would cause too much trouble if they did something that big instead of keeping it within the bounds of an arena. Some of the arenas are really big, though. It takes days on foot to cross some.

But the Capitol would never want to improve the weather in the Districts even if they could. They have so much technology, but they use it to kill people instead of helping them.

I am already dressed in a tan shirt and pants with a light blue jacket. This time the embroidered design is white feathers.

Around a bend in the tracks, I can see buildings. There are a few taller ones, maybe five stories high, but most are only one or two. Even from here I can tell the Center of District 9 is larger than all of District 12.

Everything is larger than District 12.

Mortimer comes over and he has a glass of water and some of the pills that makes my head fuzzy and calm me down. I take them without question.

Everything is better when I cannot think too hard about it.

I guess that's why Haymitch drinks.

That also means I should probably be careful with the pills. But I figure if it's Mortimer giving them to me, they can't be all that bad. They wouldn't let him give me anything too bad.

The train comes to a stop. There are tall metal cylinders near the tracks. Oh, what are they called? I saw them in the shots of another Tour in District 9 once...

Silos. They're called silos and they're used to store grain. Why can't they just put it directly on trains like they do with the coal that's mined? It takes up a lot of space to store it. And why is it being stored, when there are so many people starving?

There is a car waiting at the train station. There are plenty of Peacekeepers around to direct us into the car. There weren't this many of them in 11 or 10.

The car starts heading directly into town. That means no tour around the District this time.

It could have something to do with why there are so many Peacekeepers. But what would cause that?

The stage is set up and there is a singing choir of children.

I follow the instructions and wait at the back of the stage. 

This time, I try not to really look at the families. Or the crowd, for that matter.

But I still see mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers. And there are friends in the crowd with red-rimmed eyes.

Would Erwin be out there, crying for me, if things had been different?

Who in the crowd visited Phil and tried to give him advice? Were any of them made to promise to look after a younger brother who gets stupid when he's angry?

There is tension in the air. Most of the Peacekeepers have truncheons. But there are squads of them with rifles as well. I see some on top of high buildings as well, watching the crowd.

It might be like this all the time, or like this every Victory Tour. Or, it might just be because of me.

It's like with Gabriella, though. Self-defense. Not my fault.

Phil killed Burl. And I don't even really remember killing him. I know I did. I know there was blood.

So much blood. Too much.

The pills make it hard to focus. I don't fight it. Things are nice and fuzzy, and I don't have to think about the blood.

If I can't remember it, did I really do it? Does it count?

* * *

**Mia Cardew**   
**Capitol Citizen**   
**Stylist for District 12**

There are always enough promotional shots during the dinner to make an outfit change necessary. I'm sure the kitchen also appreciates the lull for any last-minute tasks.

Ike compliantly goes along with whatever I put him in without comment or complaint.

The bowtie is a lovely shade of emerald to go with the forest green crushed velvet waistcoat. I am determined to bring crushed velvet back into style. In part because it's such a pain to work with and I know Justinian hates it but can't stand not being on trend. I do enjoy being petty.

"Mia, can I ask you something?" Ike says softly.

"Of course you can." I reply brightly, trying to encourage him out of the shell he's been rapidly retreating into.

"Do you like being a stylist for District 12?"

It's not an entirely surprising question. Ike deserves my honesty. "I do. I wanted to be a stylist since I was six or so. And it is quite nice being District 12's stylist. No one expects much, so there's a lot more freedom and less pressure. It's comfortable. I could never stand being stylist from one of the Inner Districts."

Ike stays quiet while I make a final adjustment to his bowtie.

"But why did you want to be a stylist?"

"I always liked drawing and making things. The money is good as well, I can't say that isn't a significant part of it." That does make me seem shallow, so I make sure to still be honest. "And, well, I'm sure many of my classmates will say the same. But Cinna was a huge inspiration for me. I honestly don't think anyone will ever be able to match up to what he did. I can certainly try anyways."


	6. Chapter 6

**District 6**  
**Sally-Belle Metro, 8th**  
**Day 15, Natural Death**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

It is impossibly crowded in District 6. There are apartment buildings as tall as some of the buildings in the Capitol, and twice as crowded with people, maybe even more. They lean over tiny balconies and stare down at the car as it weaves through the streets.

There is time for a tour of one of the automotive factories, a chance for the Capitol to show off what it gets from District 6.

There are assembly lines filled with the shells of the armored Peacekeeper transporters. I've seen them a couple of times, and there's a rusted out one that sits by the ruins of the old Hob.

I try to focus on thoughts of home. Five of these visits are done. Six more to go, including District 6, then the Capitol Visit, and I'm back home. There is an end in sight.

The outfit this time is particularly stiff and uncomfortable one. The bright blue embroidery on the white vest goes up my back. It makes it impossible to bend or twist or get comfortable while sitting in the car or following the District representatives around on the tour.

All I can do is grit my teeth and bare it. I have to remind myself that Mia generally isn't all that bad. I just really wish I could move my torso easily right now. There's a spot on my shoulder that itches.

The tour around the factory is over, and the car begins taking us back toward the square. I stare out at the towering buildings. It's crowded and the air smells like burning plastic, rather like in District 8.

Peacekeepers guide us onto places. The mayor begins his speech.

I still try to not look at the families, but I cannot help but notice that the woman who must be Sally's mother is all alone in front of the banner.

Her mother has the same eyes. I can't look away. They have (had?) the same eyes.

I can still hear her calling out to me. I hear her in my dreams. I hear her when I'm awake, too, always waiting at the very edge of my mind.

I...

I know I didn't do the right thing, leaving her there to die.

But did I really do the wrong thing? Was it right of her to ask that of me?

The ghost of Sally lives in the back of my mind, forever calling me back. And I will always turn away from her.

* * *

**District 4**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

The air is pungent with salt and what must be fish. Mortimer's nose wrinkles and he raises a handkerchief to his face. I cannot help but silently agree with his action.

Even once we're in the car, the small does no abate. It sticks to everything.

The car takes us toward the ocean. The water does not look real. There shouldn't be that much water in one place.

The mayor is a twitchy man. He stumbles over his words and makes aimless small talk in a way that even the Escorts don't do. It's almost funny. The mayor of a Career District is nervous wreck.

The tour takes us past tidal pools and rows of houseboats tied up along long piers. The mayor calls them the Wharfs.

It's actually really nice here. There are a few kids running around, playing tag. They are all round cheeked. They must feel safe. There will always be a Career to save them.

Even with the pomp and circumstance of the tour, it's just another day in District 4.

I don't both listening to the mayor. I'm too busy trying to figure out how a place so beautiful makes monsters. Or maybe it is beautiful because of the monsters?

It's not long until I'm up on stage, waiting.

The crowd seems disinterested. It beats the hate and the anger I've been seeing.

I can spot some teens in the crowd who must be Careers. There are clusters of them, muscular and confident. Some of them grin and pose when the cameras sweep over the crowd, hoping to be noticed.

Why do they choose to be monsters? Do they even know what they're getting into? Do they know what comes after?

* * *

"Ike," the unfortunately familiar voice of Lynn calls out to me, "A moment, please."

I thought with dinner over I had gotten out of anything like this. But Haymitch and Mortimer got distracted by something the District Four escort started going on about, so I haven't been able to escape yet.

Lynn rounds the corner of the mayoral mansion's porch.

Scar. There is a deep scar on her face. It goes from the corner of her mouth to the middle of her cheek and twists her face into a smirk.

Lynn reaches up, covering her left eye. There are scars on the back of her right hand, too, that had previously been covered by the gloves she always wears. She takes her hand away and there is only an empty socket where her left eye had been.

"Prosthetic," She explains, showing me a half sphere of glass and metal in her palm. "The scars are hidden with makeup. I just wanted to give you a chance to see me without the Capitol all over me. It can... give the wrong impression."

"You weren't smirking." I state, wanting her to say otherwise so I can go right back to hating her like normal.

These scars and the empty socket and her wanting me to see just confuse me.

Lynn shakes her head. "No, I wasn't. It just looked that way. Always looks that way."

There is a long silence.

"What do you want?" I ask her, not sure if I want an answer.

Lynn chews on the inside of her cheek and raises her hand back to her face. A few moments pass, and when she takes her hand away, the prosthetic eye is back in the socket. "Well, largely I wanted to apologize for what I said at the interview. Those cards you're reading off of, they don't stop. I would never have said that willingly. I won't insult the dead like that."

There is a sincerity in her voice she should not be allowed to have.

"Is that all you have to apologize for?" I spit at her, wanting to bait her into... something.

"I won't apologize for being alive, if that's what you want," comes her icy reply, then her expression softens, "I will apologize for the pain I've cause you and your family. But I'm alive. And you're alive. And for Victors, that just means that twenty-three others are dead."

She acts like its nothing special. Careers are fucked up. But it does make a little bit of sense. She's probably been brainwashed into thinking it is no big deal since she was a little kid, so it really would make sense to her.

It's tiring hating her all of the time. So, for my sake at least, I think I can forgive her this little bit. "Okay. I can accept that apology."

Lynn gives a solemn nod. Silence stretches between us. A small brown cat darts into view, meowing loudly.

"Kelp, you're supposed to stay home!" Lynn exclaims, scooping up the cat.

Okay, honestly, what is my life right now?

The cat murrs and headbutts Lynn's chin. Lynn cradles the cat, scratching its neck with her scarred hand.

"It's going to storm later tonight, and he's afraid of thunder." She says, like that explains everything. "But I suppose we should both be going. I'll be seeing you around, Ike."

Lynn walks off, still cradling the purring cat. I watch her go, feeling off balance and confused from far more than just the fog from the pill. She's a person, someone more than the bloodthirsty monster I've built up in my head, and I hate that.

Lynn takes a path that must lead toward the Victor's Village. Part way up the path, there is a man who falls into step beside her. He wraps an arm around her. She leans her head on his shoulder.

It's so unfair to see. Because someone gave Lynn Rayna a happy ending.

What did she ever do to deserve it?


	7. Chapter 7

**District 2**  
**Pluta Redstone, 2nd**  
**Day 19, Last Blood**

**Ike Meadows**  
**District 12**  
**Victor of the 90th Hunger Games**

The air itself is harder to breathe here in District 2. The elevation makes it thin, at least that is the reason according to Mortimer. He also says it is bracing and good for the heart.

Mortimer is really full of shit. Not even part of the time, just... like, all the time.

The views are sweeping. The heights make my hands tingle, even with the guard rails in place. The pills are the only things keeping my heart from beating out of my chest.

Something about the empty air is magnetic. I want to touch it because I can't. I don't want to jump, or to fall, but... I don't know what I want.

That's my problem right there. I don't know what I want. And I haven't figured out how to figure that out. It was simple before. I wanted food and the hole in the roof to be patched and warmer clothes and for my brother to be back. I have everything but my brother and that's the problem. The one thing I really want the most I can never have.

Everything else is so hollow.

The mayor, a straight-backed woman whose name I have already forgotten, gives the tour. Her manner is crisp, every word sharp and exact, with no sentiment to anything. Houses and business ring the valley in terraced levels. The heart of the city is a mountain, which houses the main defense center for Panem and is surrounded by the buildings of the Pax Program, which trains the Peacekeepers. In theory, anyone can sign up to join the Pax Program, but Turquoise is the only one I've ever even heard of that's not from District 2.

I wonder where they train the Careers. Maybe it's hidden in the Pax Program buildings. Or maybe they have another name for it, some sports program or after school activity.

The closest thing we have is wrestling. Not that it would do anyone any good to know how to pin someone when they're trying to stab you. I wonder if I could do something about that. It's not like I want Careers, never that. But teaching everyone to be just a bit safer. Just a little sway in the odds.

Is that too much to ask?

What would the price be for something like that? It could be dangerous to even ask in the first place. But everyone knows about the Careers. How did they manage to do it in the first place?

Watching the people move below, as small as insects, I expect to see the military precision I see in the Peacekeepers. It isn't there. There are just people milling about. They all slowly funnel towards the center, where the stage is waiting for me. But I watch as one speck doubles back, moving quickly. They must have forgotten something.

We're piled into cars that begin to take us down. I study the buildings as they flash by. They're all stone and tile, with the only wood being doors and shutters. Everything is clean. Not Capitol clean, but still _really_ clean.

Where do the poor people live here? Because there are poor people everywhere. Maybe they just don't live in the District Center.

The further down we go, the more people I start seeing up close. They have all kinds of skin tones and hair colors. I never noticed that before. There are no clear clusters other than family groups. Huh.

In history class, they talk about racism and bigotry and how we're apparently beyond that. I've been called a Seam rat enough times to know that's not true. I fought in the Hunger Games and know that's not true.

The pills are keeping my head fuzzy and it's hard to hold into this train of thought.

Where did the phrase "train of thought" even come from?

The car stops and I'm distracted again by the whole production of getting me up on stage.

The Anthem plays but I'm too out of it to be spooked by it. I normally like how the pills make it too hard to think about things. That's the point of the pills.

But there are important things and I'm missing them. I just hope I can remember them later. I look out at the crowd, trying to capture them in my mind's eye.

The crowd, on the whole, is bored.

I learn that apathy hurts, too.

I don't matter to District 2. I'm a fluke in the system. I'm a novelty.

_Oh, look at the District 12 Victor. Whatever, we have more._

The families are not crying. They're both just standing there. All perfectly straight-backed and blank-faced. Are they not allowed to grieve?

It's hard to tell them apart from the Peacekeepers. Everything just blurs together.

* * *

No dinner is going to be worse than the one I sat through in District 4. This one will be close, though.

The Justice Building is large and blocky, all frigid stone. It's fitting in a way that is a bit too on the nose. It's also big enough I'm a bit lost.

There are heavy footsteps and for once in my life I'm glad to hear a Peacekeeper coming. I look over and that's not a Peacekeeper. It's Basalt Igneo.

As far as my fight-flight-freeze instinct is concerned, freeze is the appropriate response.

"Hello, Ike." He greets, reaching me quickly.

Basalt towers over me, a hand extended. I take his hand because I'm afraid to be rude to him. His grip is firm but careful. He smiles. It's an actual smile, too. Not some predatory flashing of teeth. It's weird because I should be afraid of him. But he seems... nice?

"I can show you where they hide the coffee."

I find my voice because he is not nearly as terrifying as he should be. "I'll take you up on that. Thanks."

Basalt guides me down the halls. Our footsteps echo, loud and quiet, and make the space seem that much more cavernous. Basalt makes small talk, lowballing me easy comments about the weather and a few light snarks about escorts fashion choices.

I can smell the coffee in the air. We're getting closer.

The other District 2 mentors appears around a bend in the hall. Boninite Skala scares me more. There is something instinctual that tells me to flee from her.

I can remember clips from her Games. They get replayed a lot. The only thing in the Cornucopia was a pile of spiked maces. No survival gear, or food, or other weapons. Just the maces.

When she smiles, it is a predatory flashing of teeth.

Basalt stares her down. It's a familiar dominance struggle I've seen from the Career Pack year after year. But for some reason I'm still not afraid of Basalt. I blame the pills making me fuzzy headed.

Without a word, Boninite leaves.

"She should hold her tongue," Basalt says, continuing down the hall. "But if she doesn't, I apologize in advance."

Boninite was Pluta's mentor, so it's obvious why she doesn't like me.

"Why should she hold her tongue?"

We reach the room with the coffee. Basalt passes me a cup and answers, "It is considered common courtesy not to hold a Victor's actions in the arena against them. Not to say that there is never judgement or grudges anyways, it's just rude to express them."

Haymitch has already mentioned something similar.

I add plenty of sugar and cream to my coffee. Basalt gives me a pointed look. I try to pretend that last comment was not directed at me.


End file.
